


Hope is the thing with feathers

by spacemir



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, But not that Civil War the real one, Civil War, Gilded Age, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Or as close as I feel comfortable depicting, Period-Typical Racism, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reconstruction era, Steve Rogers Will Fight You, Time Skips, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-25 02:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20716454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemir/pseuds/spacemir
Summary: In a world where everyone has wings but not everyone can use them, Steve is a former solider looking for the next fight and Tony is a crippled recluse trying to do the right thing.They meet: once by chance and once planned. But the world after war is full of dangers. Both must pay a price to fly free once again.Historical Wingfic AU that no one asked for but me.





	Hope is the thing with feathers

**Author's Note:**

> This author’s note is to act as a warning to you, dear reader.
> 
> This story meant to be historical fantasy fiction. I am by no means a historian. Also it’s a story I am writing for fun.
> 
> To that end, I’m making it as historically accurate as I want. I have done a lot of research! I’ve changed some things according to my own whims, as one thing that has always bothered me with wing-fic is a lack of thought on how wings would change society. But this time period is a fraught one, especially in American history. The story touches on some tough topics.
> 
> As a white American, I don’t feel comfortable expressing some of aspects of the time that may be more historically accurate. No one in this story uses the N word, because I, as a white American living in the 21st century, feel that it is an insulting and racist word for me to use, and I don’t even want to type it to include it in this story. Tony and Steve are probably a lot less racist than actual white men for this time period, but I also don’t want to write sympathetic racists, personally. There is also less homophobia and misogyny than what actually existed in the 19th century, though those I’m gonna chock up more to everyone being part bird.
> 
> Does that mean that the story is going to gloss over all the uncomfortable things in this period of American history? Hell no its not, other wise I would have set it in another time period. Or in the Wild West, like Marvel 1872 did. Heck, a major plot point is going to involve a literal race riot.
> 
> If you are a person of color and find any aspect of this story troubling in its depiction, please tell me. I will admit to a lack of sensitivity readers, or even betas. I will also admit to some white savior elements: I hope these do not offend.
> 
> Also, if you believe that the Civil War was fought over anything but slavery, I implore you to pull your head out of your ass and go read a damn history book.

**Manhattan, New York; 1870**

The workshop was were Tony could let his wings droop. They always seemed to get heavier as a day went on. Society expected strapping young vols to keep their backs straight and wings at attention. But the bones of Tony’s wing-wrists (and wing-elbows and wing shoulders…) had never healed quite right, holding them tight to Tony’s back all day was a special kind of agony.

Tony was lucky that long wing-sleeves had not yet gone completely out of fashion, otherwise someone at those ostentatious parties may have commented on his tattered primaries that spoke of dragged wings.

Tony glanced at the table to his right; the mess of leather straps laying there seemed to mock him. Would he need them again today? Surely not. Today’s agenda was drafting plans for an electric furnace. Faraday’s principles could be used to reliably heat a metal evenly… And thus Tony was absorbed into the great drafting table in front of him, with its many rulers and protractors and pencils and paper begging to be brought to life. The pain in his wings could be forgotten, for a time, in the world of straight lines and dimensioning.

Steam was still the primary driver of the engine for now, but soon electricity would win out, and Tony meant to be on that bleeding edge.

Hours later, with wings that felt draped in lead, Tony stumbled out the bay doors of the workshop to the side entrance of his house next door. The narrow opening of the door seemed to rap his drooping wings reproachfully like a scolding mother.

Tony stopped in the kitchen, enticed by the smell of a lovely roast. Jarvis’s wings were turned, and he was chopping vegetables on the back counter by the large window. This afforded Tony a chance to nab some scraps before—but just as his fingers reached toward the cooling roast did his knuckles get rapped by a large spoon. Tony looked up into disapproving British eyebrows. Tony abruptly brought his hands under his wings.

“Good afternoon, sir. I was just about to retrieve you from your hovel. You have a visitor.”

“Oh?” Tony replied innocently, attempting to sneak his hand towards a plate of cannoli resting near the roast.

Jarvis looked pointedly towards the drawing room, which is when Tony noticed the lilting tones of a piano. “Ah,” Tony intoned, eloquently.

“Dinner,” Jarvis said, with another pointed look at Tony’s hand, which he quickly snapped back under his wing, “will be served shortly.”

Thoroughly thwarted, Tony walked with purpose towards the drawing room. Within sat Obi, his long overcoat draped haphazardly over the bench beside him, his long fingers delicately plucking at the keys.

“Tony!” Obi shouted above the strings, “Out of the hovel at last, I see. Anything good, my boy?”

“Jarvis just called my workshop the very same thing! I would have you know that it is a place of innovation, not the drunken and disorderly hovel which you both proclaim it.”

“And what innovation have you brought forth today, my boy?” Obadiah asked, abandoning the keys before him and turning to face Tony.

“I do not know if I wish to share it anymore, after being so defamed in my own home, by my own Uncle about my own work!” 

Obi hummed commiserating and stood to wrap an arm around Tony’s shoulders. The weight of it leaned slightly on the base of Tony’s wings and increased the ache there. Obi leaned down to better look into Tony’s eyes, which shifted most of the pressure to Tony’s shoulders. “What have you made today, Tony?” Obi asked with a fatherly grin.

“Have you read of Faraday’s treatise? Perhaps the writings of Foucault?” Tony asked back. At Obi’s blank look, Tony grinned. “I understand. Technical French may be a bit outside your wheelhouse. When a magnetic field is created and passed through a conductor, some metal, let us say iron, that metal heats. Heat it enough, and it may just melt. Only relatively small magnetic fields are required—”

“None yet. Theoretically eventually we could use it in a foundry. Imagine a foundry that does not require massive furnaces full of coal, instead heating it’s metal evenly throughout purely with electricity!”

“I thought it was magnetism.” Obi said, leaning back. His arm slipped slightly from Tony’s shoulder and it landed heavily on the base of Tony’s left wing. Tony flinched. It had to be an accident, as Obi’s brows were furrowed as he tried to keep pace with Tony’s thought.

“That is the thing, they are essentially the same! You can generate a magnetic field from an electric one, and vice versa—”

“Again, I ask, the practicality?”

“Well, eventually a foundry, but first I need to get it to work. My problem currently is power. I need more of it, current really. Ha! Currently I need more current." <\p> 

Obi did not laugh. Tony continued, "I came over because I smelled the roast and the light was going dim, but I’ll set the gas lamps after supper and continue to work.” Tony turned, in part to see if Jarvis was ready for dinner and in part to shake loose Obi’s hand. As if summoned by Tony’s turn, Jarvis appeared in the doorway.

“Dinner is served, sirs.” He said with a slight bow.

“Will you be joining us for supper, Obi?” Tony asked.

“No, I promised my wife that I would return for the evening. I just wanted to check in before I return to her.” Obi advanced towards the front door, brushing past Jarvis and reached for his overcoat. Jarvis stepped forward to help drape the wing-sleeves properly. As he adjusted the lapels to lie smooth, Obi said, “Please, my boy, find some practicality. Perhaps from the power source? With the reconstruction of the southern ports there may be good money there…”

“I’ll look into it,” Tony promised. Obi dipped his hat in acknowledgement and turned to go.

Jarvis and Tony stood in the entryway for another minute after the door had closed behind him. They exchanged a glance, and some of Jarvis’s butler-y air seemed to dissipate. Jarvis’s look was still more professional than Tony’s, who rolled his eyes.

“Well,” Tony said, crossing his arms in front of his chest with a sigh, “at least he didn’t ask after Rhodey again. Any news on that front?”

“Mister Rhodes and Miss Potts have both sent letters that await you in your study. They have also both scheduled a meeting with you tomorrow to discuss the situation.”

“Separately, or together?”

“Separately.”

“Well, that seems absurd. Why discuss the same matter twice with both of them on the same day? Let us meet together and have a good row about it at the same time.”

“Very good, sir. I will see to it. Now you should presently see to your roast, as it is growing cold.”

“First you will not let me eat it, then you complain that I go about eating it slowly? I can never keep track of your whims, Jarvis.”

“I rather think it’s the other way around, sir.”

“Sass! In my own house!”

Tony turned and stalked back towards the dining room with as much drama as he could infuse in his steps. He heard Jarvis sigh behind him as he did. He could tell just by the sound that it was shaped by a smile.

The roast was laid on the fine table, cutlery for two arranged around it. Tony started to cut a slice of roast for Jarvis when a knock came at the door. Jarvis left to answer. Distracted by the heavenly smell of the meat plus the wall and hallway in between the dining room and the door prevented Tony from hearing much more than the suggestion of a conversation.

“If it is Obadiah, tell him he’s already missed his chance for the roast!” Tony shouted. There was a pregnant pause, and two pairs of footsteps came down the hall at his words. Tony glanced up at the door to see Jarvis and his guest. His smile immediately soured.

“I was just telling Mr. Fury how you were not present, sir, as you instructed.” Jarvis had again adopted his air of professional butler. He inclined his head with a pointed look. Tony knew that look from a loud, rowdy childhood with uninterested parents and no friends and only a butler for company. The look asked Tony why he had to make Jarvis’s life that much harder. It was softened by the slight upturn of Jarvis’s mouth.

“Well, as you can see, I am not. I am never present anywhere, I exist only in the future.” Tony started heaping green beans onto the plate--his plate now, he supposed, because he refused to serve Fury and Jarvis would refuse to eat with him now that they had a guest.

“If only that were true, Stark. But we both know that sometimes both the present and the past can bite us in ways we least expect. If only we could live in the future to avoid them.” Fury sat himself at the table and began to serve himself.

Tony set his plate down a touch harsher than he intended. The force of it rattled the cutlery. “Why are you here?” Tony demanded as he threw himself into his chair and began to cut angrily at his roast.

“Gotten any more letters, Stark?” Fury asked with a knowing smirk. Tony scowled. Of course the bastard knew about the letters, but Tony refused to give him any satisfaction.

“I get quite a lot of mail. You will have to be more specific.” Tony took a large mouthful of beans, eyes deliberately focused on nothing but the plate before him.

“The letters threatening your friend, the freeman.” Fury took a bite of green beans himself, smirking all the while.

“I have no friends who were ever freed from enslavement, so I haven’t the slightest what you mean.”

“Do not play games with me, Stark. We know about the letters. Your campaign for Congress on his behalf was a fools errand to begin with, and now you’ve painted a target on both your heads. Manhattan is staunchly Democratic, and you’ve made powerful enemies in Tammany Hall. Soon they will not be satisfied with mere threatening letters.”

Tony set his knife and fork down deliberately slowly. He didn’t move his head to glare at Fury. “And what do you want to do about it?”

“I want you to meet my man. He can offer you some protection, and some insight. He’s… part of the government, but not beholden to it. He can be discrete. And I think he’ll take a special interest in your case.”

“And how will I do that, without alerting the very same people to his involvement?”

“Simple.” Fury reached into his overcoat. Tony stiffened slightly, untrusting. Fury took a small but thick envelope out and slid it cross the table. Tony opened it. It was made of good quality, heavy weight paper. The looping script on the paper declared it an invitation.

“The Worthingtons are hosting a ball?” Tony asked, confused.

“Their son is coming of age. It’s a celebration, with a large crowd of Manhattan’s elite. You both will not look out of place, and it will not look strange for you to slip away early with each other.” Fury said, smirking as he took another bite of Tony’s roast.

“I will consider it,” Tony said with as much finality as he could muster.

“Do. And when you decide to come, wear this.” Fury placed a pin on the table, “He will wear the same, which is how you will know him.” Fury dabbed at his mouth with faux delicacy and stood to leave. Before he got to the door, he turned to Tony. “I want to help you, Stark. You are fighting a battle that deserves to be won.”

With a dramatic crack of cloth (he had to be maneuvering his wings to get that sound from his coat), Fury left.

Tony stared down at his plate. The meat tasted sour on his tongue. He put his cutlery down and stood from the table. The pin caught his eye, tauntingly bright on the opposite side. He took it. Jarvis caught him on his way out the side door. “Dinner, sir?” He asked.

“I’ve got work to do Jarvis.” He couldn’t make his coat snap with his wings like Fury, but the door did slam satisfactorily enough.

\--  
**Manhattan, New York; 1863**

Tony pushed aside the heavy curtains to peak at the street below. The mob had grown precipitously. The shouts were loud, even five stories up. A Vol or two hovered around, diving in and out of the crowd. Flame winked between shifting bodies, but it was difficult to tell if it was held by the mob, or something burning between their feet.

“Anthony, dear, leave the window. Let us not be troubled by the rabble downstairs.” His mother gently took Tony’s elbow and attempted to steer him away from the glass. He shook off her hand.

Tony heard a disgruntled huff behind him. It was accompanied by the rattle of ice on crystal. “Let the boy get his fill of violence here, Maria. Better than down below, or worse, out on the front lines.”

He glanced over his shoulder to see his father lounging in an overstuffed chair. There was a carefully constructed air of indifference around Howard, as if the world could not touch him on his chosen throne. Despite this, Tony could see a line of tension in Howard’s shoulders up into his wings; they were high and tight to his back, held well away from the wing-rests of the chair, a stiff contrast to the decadent sprawl of the rest of his limbs. 

“Do you not always wish me to be more of a man? How does cowering in this hotel prove my manhood?” Tony spat, turning back to the window.

“Arrogant prick,” Howard spat in turn, “would you like to get picked for the draft like the mudsill down below? Wave at your fellow man, Tony. They would just as soon pluck and eat you as greet you as an equal.” Howard took a long swig of his scotch.

“Why should my life be worth more than theirs?” Tony snarled. The words felt thin and overused in his mouth, and, like always, fell on deaf ears.

“Because it is.” Howard took another long drink. There was hardly any scotch left now in his glass. “This war has already gone on long enough. We’re started to lose profits, even with the extra weapons we sell. Why should I send my heir to die in a fruitless war?”

“Because it’s not fruitless! The slaves- “

“Do not bring that abolitionist propaganda back again, Anthony! Where do you even hear that rabble?” Howard slammed his glass into the table beside him. The ice within it rattled, raising alarmingly close to the sides. Watered down scotch mixed with condensation on the sides.

“Fredrick Douglas’s papers are not prop- “

“Anthony.” His mother’s firm voice nearly covered Howard’s answering scoff. “Please. Do not antagonize your father.”

Tony huffed again and turned abruptly to stomp across the parlor. The gilded door leading to the bedroom slammed satisfyingly behind him, but not before he heard his mother sigh out his name once more.

The shouts filtering up from the streets seemed to intensify while he sat here alone. Tony pulled himself up onto the desk by the window. He watched the pulsing, angry crowd below, and it seemed to mirror his feelings for an awful minute. He could hear his mother making excuses for him through the thin wall, blaming his mood on the stress of confinement and the humidity. Howard gave shorter replies, presumably too fixated on fixing himself another glass of scotch.

They had been trapped in this hotel for close to a day now. The riots had broken out just a few hours before, and Howard had proclaimed their townhouse too dangerous. There were rumors that the rich were being targeted due to their ability to afford substitutions in the draft. Howard refused to even entertain the possibility that the mob would be capable on turning on his family, but still insisted that they move to the nearby Fifth Avenue Hotel. Nothing but the finest for Howard in exile from his own home.

Tony sighed to himself. He pulled up a knee to lean on as he gazed out the window. His wings curled towards his shoulders, but their movement was restricted by the wing-sleeves. Tony unbuttoned the coverings, allowing him to stretch up and around him comfortingly. 

The sky had grown increasingly grey throughout the day, and the humidity had grown unbearable. Tony remembered a paper he read about weather prediction efforts in England; they sent telegrams about weather to different stations along the coast to warn ships of inclement weather. Tony wondered if a storm in England could be predicted to move to America with days of forewarning instead of hours. He oft imaged a future where a storm could be predicted, even prevented, long before it blew a single gust.

As he rested his cheek back on his knee in idle contemplation, he noticed a flicker of movement on a rooftop across the road. A group of vols had congregated there and seemed to be arguing among themselves. All their wings were uncovered, flapping furiously as the men shouted at each other.

One had the signature fiery hair of the Irish. He stood as the tallest of the bunch, with large wings and long primaries; some sort of vulture by the looks of it. His converts were a creamy gold.  
Tony struggled to think back to the different Avis species that had been drilled into his head by a tutor. An old world vulture, most likely, given the European features of the man. There were very few vultures that made their home in Europe proper, but that did not preclude some mixture from another continent. 

Raindrops began to fall.

Before Tony could pin down the wing type of the Irishman across the street, the group resolved their argument. With furtive glances at the clouds, the men crouched together on the roof, and seemed to settle out of sight.

How strange, Tony thought. But the boredom and the argument with his father and the increasing intensity of the rain got the best of him, and he found his eyes had become heavy. Tony drifted off to sleep as the coming storm seemed to ease the shouts from the crowded streets below.

**Author's Note:**

> “Hope” is the thing with feathers -  
That perches in the soul -  
And sings the tune without the words -  
And never stops - at all -
> 
> And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -  
And sore must be the storm -  
That could abash the little Bird  
That kept so many warm -
> 
> I’ve heard it in the chillest land -  
And on the strangest Sea -  
Yet - never - in Extremity,  
It asked a crumb - of me.
> 
> \--Emily Dickenson


End file.
